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THE TENDER MEMORIES 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 



LAVAL 

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PORTLAND MAINE 

THE MOSHER PRESS 

MDCCCCXX 



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COPYRIGHT 

THOMAS BIRD MOSHER 

1920 



JUH 19 5320 
B)GI.A570407 



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THE TENDER MEMORIES 





THE TENDER MEMORIES 
I 

OUR days since the operation 
and I have been brought to 
Laval — my leg in a metal 
trough. The journey was not 
as painful as in anticipation. The move- 
ment of the train cradled me to sleep before 
midnight and when I opened my eyes the 
sun was shining. Through the open door, 
my stretcher being on the floor, I saw the 
poem of Normandy slipping by. What 
green uncanny stillness after the cyclonic 
devastation of the battlefields! How, I 
dreamingly wonder, have these trees and 
cottages remained so calm while a few miles 
away not the least bush but shows a ghastly 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

commotion. Perhaps the ancient serenity 
of Northern France, driven from home with 
the mothers and children, took refuge here 
and doubled the native tranquillity. The 
hushed and vanishing woods are lovely to 
wounded eyes. When the long train stops 
the jar and noise are not unpleasant — for are 
we not riding away, away from Death? 

An orderly comes through the train dis- 
tributing hot chocolate from a huge pitcher. 
I find my cup; in doing so I see that my 
coat (which is my blanket) is covered with 
fresh blood. I look up at the slumping 
stretcher gently swinging above me and 
realize what has happened. 

"Chocolate?" 

"The comrade has had a hemorrhage — 
see — I'm wet with blood." 

The orderly, stooping, fills my cup and 
straightening his back regards the soldier 
over my head. 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

"Qa ne va pas?" I hear him ask. 

No answer. 

He puts down his steaming pitcher and 
uncovers the face of the soldier. 

"My God! he is dead." 

A tremor runs through the tiers of 
wounded. The comrade opposite me on 
the floor gets up on his elbow. 

"Dead — is he dead?" 

The dewy poem of Normandy slipping by. 

"He was alive at three o'clock." 

Passing into the adjoining car the orderly 
fetches a little spectacled Doctor. The 
Doctor gives one look — touches the soldier. 
The blood drips on my coat. 

"Died at sunrise — put him off at the 
next station." 

A sigh or two, but no one speaks for the 
rest of the journey. I count the slow drops 
falling heavily from the swaying canvas down 
to my knees. They wink as they fall. 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

At Laval I am lifted out and left on the 
dusty platform for a long time. The dead 
comrade is slanted out a little roughly. His 
helmet covers his face but I see the curly 
hair of his beard on his throat. Two young 
soldiers carry me through the crowd, put 
me into an ambulance with three others, 
and we go jolting over the cobble-stones. 

"Slower for God's sake," one calls to 
the heedless chauffeur. 

With a bump we enter a courtyard and 
are taken out and left on the mossy flags. 
I am one of over a hundred tired victims 
waiting to be admitted to the hospital. The 
sun is in my face and I pull my cap over 
my eyes. A sister in a great bonnet brings 
me a drink of water. Hours pass and night 
is falling when I am taken in — as I go 
through the wide door of the ward I read 
" Salle Verdun " printed on the panel. An 
old woman and one of the stretcher bearers 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

undress me with considerable awkwardness 
and put me into a clean blue shirt. By 
placing the stretcher on a level with the 
bed and with the assistance of another 
soldier, my trough and I are moved on to 
the mattress and covered up to the chin. 
Divine moment! I relax into a lap of fur 
and satin. My shoulders and hands grow 
warm and heavy. Vaguely I hear bells 
and voices, footsteps, receding — always 
receding. 



II 



"T HAVE died and this is eternity," I 
thought awaking suddenly. In an 
even greyness the beds seem to repeat one 
after another to some far horizon. The faint 
pulse of an infinitely distant sea accents 
the deadness. A clock somewhere on the 
shore strikes "two " like a solemn voice say- 
ing " Goodbye." Gradually my senses float 
to the surface and I remember I am in the 
hospital at Laval. Pulling myself to the 
edge of the bed I lean over and examine 
the little table on which I dimly see my 
watch, cup, pocket-knife, etc. Then I feel 
along the floor as far as I can reach. My 
hand paws the emptiness. I sink back on 
the pillow and study to forget my dilemma. 
Not a sound from the sleepers. My eyes 
grown accustomed to the summer darkness 
realize the comrades in the beds at either 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

side. The hair of the man to my right 
looks like ink spilt on the pillow. I am ill 
at ease. By drawing up the trough I man- 
age to sit up in bed and look around. 
Surely there is someone to aid the blesse 
who is unable to help himself. Nobody. 

"Can't you sleep?" a voice on my left. 

"I need a pistolet." 

" Thirty-seven i" the voice calls. 

''I've got no legs" — remarks the voice 
in a lower tone. "Thirty-seven ! " 

"What is it?" comes sleepily from the 
other side of the ward. 

"Pistolet — twenty-four," answers the 
voice. A sound of someone getting out of 
bed — the pat, pat of naked feet over the 
floor, and a phantom stands beside me. His 
arm I notice is bound to his chest. 

"You fellows drink too much Pinard," 
he good naturedly remarks, passing me the 
pistolet. 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

"You have saved my honor," I say with 
an unseen smile. 

"Tant mieux!" And Thirty-seven pats 
back to his dreams. 



Ill 



*'^^^00D morning, everybody." It is 
^^ seven o'clock and the old woman I 
had seen the day before has entered the 
ward and is lifting off her queer little 
bonnet. 

"Good morning, Grand 'mere," runs from 
bed to bed and makes quite a riotous wel- 
come. Grand 'mbre distributes the "West- 
ern Light," and as her worn hands detach 
my paper by my cot side, I notice hers is 
an agreeable face — old and brown and very 
wrinkled — but old in honest years and 
wrinkled with kindly thoughts. To the 
arrivals of yesterday she gives an especially 
tender smile — and they are less lonely. 

Some of the windows are open and the 
personality of a happy child comes in — 
fresh, scented, golden haired. 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

Grand 'mbre trots away and trots back 
with the bread and coffee. From experi- 
ence I know I cannot touch my tin cup of 
boiling liquid (it has no handle) until it has 
stood a while. I look about and gather my 
first impression of my new home. Each 
bed is occupied and has a number tacked 
on the wall above. We are twenty blesses 
in the high studied schoolroom of an ancient 
convent. The walls are bare and white 
except to the south and the sunrise, where 
the green and gold pictures are stately win- 
dows giving on to the garden. Between 
the two southern windows hangs the sculp- 
tured image of a delicate blesse — His 
wounds eloquently bleeding. The twenty 
beds are of simple iron structure. At the 
head of each stands a little table littered 
with soldier clutter. I am pleased that my 
bed is near a window. I can see the dew 
on the grass and watch the amber circles 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

dancing on the lower branches. My sky 
is a small blue flag. I look at the com- 
rade who spoke to me in the night. He 
is young — twenty perhaps — brown haired, 
nondescript, friendly. The mound that he 
makes on his bed is no longer than a little 
boy. He says "good morning" to me and 
smiles. The man on my right is a hand- 
some southerner. His pink shirt is unfas- 
tened showing a proud and hairy chest. 
His right arm is bandaged to the shoulder. 
I glance down the line of beds on both sides 
of the ward — pleasant faces that I know so 
well — the sweet-eyed poilus of all ages each 
as I have lived and fought beside at the 
front. 

Thirty-seven passes along collecting the 
cups. I drink my coffee at a gulp. My 
first day at Laval is inaugurated. 



IV 



T TAD I died on the battlefield suffering 
would have been unknown to me. It 
is in the hospitals that the poilu is crucified. 
The Doctor, a genial giant with a red neck 
and large hands, has passed through the 
ward attended by the amorous head-nurse. 
Soon after their departure two men arrive 
with a rolling stretcher and one following 
another in rapid succession, we are whirled 
down the cool corridor to the dressing sta- 
tion. While I am en route the speed with 
which I am borne makes me a little afraid 
of the corners. The dressing station is a 
painful little room crowded with semi nude 
soldiers. Two are flat on the tables sur- 
rounded by nurses. Others are unwinding 
the stained bandages from their wounds. 
Some are ready and waiting, resignedly 
gazing into the crude hollows. The air is 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

Stale and smells of suffering. Through the 
closed window I see the lilac shadow of a 
tree printed on an old religious wall. There 
are red flowers by a curving path. 

When my turn comes I am put on to the 
table — a white table discolored by the 
hastily wiped dripping of our blood. At 
the lower end is a sliding cover the edges 
of which are crusted and livid. The man 
on the other table screams — his shoulder 
has been blown away. A nice woman with 
full lips unstraps my trough and lifts out my 
leg. It might be a log wrapped in snow. 
The wool and bandages removed, the Giant 
raises my leg to a right angle with my heart. 
My wound is under my right knee and I can 
feel the hot blood running up my thigh. 
The last englued cloth is torn off and the 
washing and poking begin while I am con- 
scious of a sharp tooth biting into my brain. 
I can feel my fingers pressing through the 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

table. One of the women asks me a ques- 
tion or two — and noting my accent says: 

"But you are not French." 

"I am an American — a volunteer in the 
French army." 

"Qa, c'est chic," and her smile is a 
recognition. 

"Ah ! but I am far from chic as a 
blesse — I suffer ." 

" Mais non, mais non ; it is almost fin- 
ished — your dressing." 

The amorous head-nurse prepares a drain. 
I watch her with an insane desire that she 
may drop dead before she has fished out 
from the tall glass jar the long purple 
"meche" for which, while smiling on the 
Giant, she is angling with her steel pincers. 
Everybody holds my leg while the " meche " 
is forced into the wound. A bitter taste 
suffuses my mouth and my teeth chatter. 
I hear voices calming the victim on the 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

table beside me. Then the nice woman 
wraps me again in wool and cotton rib- 
bons and straps me into the trough. I am 
whirled around the corners to Salle Verdun. 
Grand 'mere adjusts me in my bed — and 
under the hem of the sheet I hide my 
ignoble tears. 



/"^ RAND'M£RE takes the boy who has 

^^ lost both legs, in her arms like a baby 
and puts him down tenderly on the stretcher. 
He waves his hand to the ward as he rides 
away. 

"Ah! that is sad," Grand' mere is saying, 
"he so young and gay. Pray God my 
Joseph comes home on his legs — Joseph 
is so fond of walking — and what would 
become of the farm — with only Marie- 
Louise to come and go — Little Jesus, pro- 
tect my Joseph." 

"Has Joseph a farm?" asks number 
twenty-six who has walked back from his 
dressing and is getting into bed. 

"Why, yes, along the river — and by 
working early and late Joseph and Marie- 
Louise have done very well — until the war 
came — the place is wasting now." 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

"Like all the other farms, Grand 'mbre." 
"Mais oui — I know well — like all the 
others — with the men at the front — 
Dame! I was proud of my Joseph when 
he marched away — mais oui — I was proud 
and so was Marie-Louise — Little Jesus pro- 
tect my Joseph." 

And so Grand 'mere chatters as she trots 
about doing a multitude of little affairs — 
and in her garrulousness I gradually emerge 
from my anguish. I soon come to think she 
consciously sought to entertain us — for she 
was never so loquacious as after our cruci- 
fixions. And Joseph and Marie-Louise, his 
wife, became inmates of our ward. They 
were Grand 'mere's subject. We knew all 
about them. We read Joseph's postals. 
We consoled his mother when he was in 
battle and rejoiced with her when he was 
"en repos." "Little Jesus protect my 
Joseph," somehow made us feel that we, 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

the undead, were included in her hourly 
prayer. 

When the boy without any legs came 
back he was singing about his Sunday 
breeches. And the two men rolling the 
stretcher brought a gale of laughter into 
the ward. 

" My breeches have changed since I was young, 
My beautiful Sunday breeches." 

Gently Grand 'mere put him singing into 
bed and "Little Jesus" and "my Joseph" 
got mixed up in her queer dry laughter. 

Then the soup comes in and Grand 'mere 
forgets everything in the happiness of feed- 
ing her "family." 



24 



VI 



'T^HERE is no arrangement for lighting 
-*■ our ward and we have no candles so I 
am free to watch the day through its atten- 
uations of decay die like a poet. Towards 
late afternoon I amuse myself by finding the 
analogy, and think of Keats in ivory and 
mauve, and Shelley in gold and blue, and 
Verlaine in sad splendors. These August 
days perish like that. Suddenly a graver 
stillness on the walls, and the branches in 
our pictures are become vaguely blue and 
lifeless. My flag of sky trembles with 
golden butterflies. The footfalls on the 
garden gravel squeak rhythmically, dis- 
tinctly. The twenty beds are in a trance; 
if a comrade speaks his voice is lower than 
at midday. Some one puts a book aside — 
I can almost hear his story going to sleep. 
I watch — a mist is rising through the lines 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

on the floor. It gathers under the beds 
furtively. Grey foxes slink noiselessly into 
the corners. Grand 'mere has gone home 
to lonely Marie-Louise. The Christ on the 
wall wastes — the gold in His curls shim- 
mers — the blood in His palms is black. I 
close my eyes and go away — other twilights 
invade me — green spaces of meditation on 
the battlefields. A steeple shakes out a 
basket of invisible flowers — they fade in 
our dreams. The butterflies drift, vanish. 
The windows are solemn landscapes in a 
brown gallery. Slowly, timidly, the night 
enters the ward and creeps from bed to 
bed. Only the ceiling floats white and 
high. The handsome comrade on my right 
puts out his arm and just touches my pillow. 
Darkness. No one speaks for a long time. 
From the hidden moon falls a phantom of 
silver snow. Shadows slip along the ceil- 
ing. Enchantment is in the garden. The 

26 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

boy without legs sings to himself — we listen 
— we begin to hum the refrain — two voices, 
three voices, a chorus rises. 



VII 

TT is only a few days before I am familiar 
with my comrades and love them quite 
frankly like brothers. We call each other 
by our first name — all except Thirty-seven 
who responds to his number. It is a strange 
largefamilyandGrand 'mere a kindly Mother 
Hubbard. The boy without legs is Louis and 
he is the fountain of most of our gaiety. 
Paul, who is Louis' neighbor and against 
the wall, never laughs although he seems to 
listen to Louis all day long — listen and 
smoke — but Paul's story is very sad. 
Victor is the man to my right — a volun- 
teer from Marseille. He was a gunner 
and his hand was torn off by a shell com- 
ing from one of our batteries. He was 
wounded the day before I was and in the 
same neighborhood. "It was dusk," he 
said, "and we had just placed our cannon, 

28 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

nicely screened by tall trees, when orders 
came to pound a certain ravine. Hell 
roared — and I and four others fell — two 
were scattered to bird crumbs. The others 
lay in a bloody group. 'What has hap- 
pened?' the Captain shouted — and then we 
realized we had been hit by a shell from the 
battery in our rear. The cannon had been 
badly pointed and its first shell encounter- 
ing a heavy branch of one of the trees 
had exploded almost over our heads. My 
God! how the Captain swore. I heard him 
between the thunder as I was carried away 
on a stretcher. My hand was blown off 
above the wrist — clean as though cut by 
a knife. But it didn't begin to sing much 
until the next morning. However it is quiet 
enough now," and he added giving a wink 
and waving his left arm above his curly 
head, "one arm is long enough for any 
girl." 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

Jean is beside Victor and his head is in 
a multifold bandage. He has been badly 
burned by the gas. His head resembles a 
great snowball. One eye is free to look at 
the ceiling — and Jean smokes from morning 
until night. Victor calls him the mummy and 
daily threatens to bury him under a pyramid 
of pillows. 

Next to Paul is Georges, a big fellow who 
has sacrificed both hands. His joke is to 
cry out a general invitation to play ball. 
Thirty-seven is very devoted to Georges and 
I often see him arranging a book between 
his stumps and putting a long paper knife 
in his teeth by means of which Georges 
turns the leaves of romance. 

Andre and Pierre and Nicolas, Alfred, 
Marc and Henri, I know them all and 
sooner or later inquire with interest their 
story and the progression of their healing 
wounds. Each has his intimate bitter 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

moment, each adds his softer or louder 
note to our chorus. Along the opposite 
wall the same rosary of wounds. Jacques 
has given an eye — Desire an arm — Gaston 
a leg — and so on from gift to gift. C 'est 
la guerre, et c'est pour la belle France. We 
are her farmers — her vine-dressers — her 
mechanics — her masons. We are humble 
victims refused by Death, and when we are 
not homesick and quiet we are talkative and 

gay. 



VIII 

'' I ''HE Giant and his fascinated attendant 
consider us every other morning and 
after their hurried visit we are rushed on the 
stretcher to the dressing station and yell or 
grind our teeth. One day while Louis was 
being tortured I talked with Paul. His is 
a very sad story. Paul is a musician and 
gained his livelihood at Lyon playing the 
violin in a theatre orchestra. His right 
arm is in a bad way. A bullet has severed 
a nerve and the Giant will only say, "per- 
haps," whenever Paul questions him. Some 
days he is quite hopeful and feels he has 
merely to wait patiently to hear again the 
consolation of his violin. Other days when 
he remains silent hour after hour I know his 
hopes are drowned in an abyss of discour- 
agement. I try to think of something to 
say — but it is very hard. He told me his 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

father plays the flute and that his sister is 
quite clever at the piano. Their Sunday 
morning musicales were the delight of his 
week. He loves "Werther" and "Car- 
men." One night I heard him sobbing 
discreetly and called over Louis's bed to 
ask if his arm was aching. 

"My old friend," he said, "I hear them 
tuning up in the theatre — and I am not 
there." 

After a silence he said, "What does a 
man do in the evening if he cannot play a 
violin?" 



33 



IX 



WESTERDAY while I was shaving, la 
Mere Superieure came into the ward 
with twenty clean shirts piled on her arm. 
The long dangling chains hanging from 
her thick waist made a rattle as she moved 
from bed to bed. Each man is given a 
shirt — and Victor insists on having a pink 
one. La Mbre Superieure laughs and I 
notice she has no teeth and very red gums. 
Victor begins immediately to change his 
shirt. La M^re Superieure turns her bon- 
net toward me. Later la Soeur Angelique 
appeared and distributed twenty large ging- 
ham handkerchiefs. She is young and rosy 
and only her black robe and coiffe seem 
religiously inclined. Each blesse makes 
some little pleasantry with la Soeur Ange- 
lique as she passes delicately from bed to 
bed. I am not surprised to see her linger 

34 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

beside Victor. He looks very handsome 
and la Soeur Angelique finds a handker- 
chief to match his shirt. She asks him 
more questions about his wound than she 
does the others. Suddenly she blushes as 
though a worldly fancy had touched her 
and quite abruptly leaves the ward. For 
the rest of the day Victor has too much to 
say to me about la Sceur Angelique, and 
Grand 'mere overhearing one of his remarks 
says, 

"Will you be still, Victor." 

•'But, Grand 'mere, she is so pretty." 

"Dame, oui, and so good." 

Victor laughs and runs his hand through 
his hair. After dark that night while some 
of us were singing he threw off his blanket 
and sitting on the edge of his bed told me 
the long story of his escapades in Marseille. 
Smoking my pipe I find him sufficiently 
interesting. These August nights are rest- 
as 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

less — perhaps it is the song always dying 
away on one pillow — always caught up 
again on another — perhaps it is the faint 
odor from the garden that is so enervating 

— perhaps . Victor is asleep on his back, 

his knees making a pyramid. A star has 
crossed my flag of sky — I fall asleep. 



36 



X 



A T first I could not believe my eyes — 
and then I realized — it was he — my 
friend — my beloved Captain — coming down 
the ward toward my bed. I had heard from 
him within a week and knew he was in a 
hospital at Dinard waiting to submit to a 
second operation. And there he was walk- 
ing toward me his back bent like a man who 
is very tired. I pulled up my trough and 
stretched out my arms. 

"C'est toi, mon cher cadavre — c'est bien 
toi— " 

His honest eyes are dim as he gives his 
soldier the accolade. Brushing away the 
papers from the chair he sits down beside 
me. I show him my trough and tell him 
my story. He is a consolation and a sym- 
pathy — his heart is in his voice. 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

"But you, my Captain, how have you 
come away from your hospital?" 

"As soon as the fever following my sec- 
ond operation left me, and I could get on 
my coat I slipped away — I was anxious to 
see you." 

"And your wound?" 

"HeaHng — see the great hump on my 
back — I've a mile of dressing." 

"But you are exhausted by this journey 
to Laval." 

"Not too much — I arrived last night 
late — too late to come here — but I found 
a bed — or rather a sofa — in a hotel parlor 
and slept a little. I was at the hospital 
door before it was opened." 

"Et c'est toi, mon cher cadavre — c'est 
toi— " 

Cher cadavre — thus we had come to call 
one another since living together at the 
front. What days, what nights we have 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

passed! What long sunlit and moonlit 
marches from Artois to Lorraine! And 
the black fatigue and the forlorn centuries 
in the trenches! What luck that we are 
alive — escaped from the putrefying shores 
of Acheron ! 

He has only an hour to stay with me. 
He walks away like a tired old man — he 
is gone. 

Noble Captain — in the years coming 
over me — whatever sweetness they may 
distill into the chambers of my heart shall 
serve to embalm the memory of you — of 
your visit to me — your soldier — wounded 
at Laval. 



39 



XI 

"TL est bien chic, votre Capitaine," Victor 
remarks. 

" Oui, mon ami." 

"lis ne sont pas tous comme 9a." 

"Non, mon ami." 

"II etait votre copain avant la guerre.?" 

"Mais, non, mon ami." 

"II est de quel pays?" 

"La Bretagne, mon ami." 

"Duex fois Fran^ais, alors — n'est-ce- 
pas?" 

"Oui, mon ami." 

And I light my pipe and pass the day in 
a rainbow of reminiscence. How fast life 
recedes — like a young eagle mounting the 
clouds. A year — already a year. 

I review my warrior days somewhat as 
a stranger might after reading of them in 

40 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

a book. Veiled, yet so vivid, returns the 
Paris afternoon when I enlisted in the 
French Infantry and put on a blue uniform 
and was given a gun. The week at the depot 
of St. Malo. The month of hard training at 
Menil-sur-Saulx learning to shoot, to throw 
a grenade, to kill a dummy with a bayonet. 
The first long march in the September 
heat — the crossing the improvised bridge 
in the moonless night. The hollow villages 
seen by sunset as we pass through the 
famous and silent country where France 
won the victory of the Marne. New Year's 
Eve waiting in the snow. The February 
trenches — Spring — and the battle near 
Mondidier the first week in June — Ah I my 
Captain, shall we ever forget the beauty of 
the landscape in which we fought that 
battle.? The unpitying sun — the miles of 
yellow wheat — the clover, larkspur, mustard, 
poppies, bluets — and the crumpled dead — 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

our dead — tumbled among them . We 

trampled a field of thyme and its fresh odor 
with the smell of powder survives in my 
brain. The night in the bombarded and 
grewsome ravine. The coming of the last 
day — the attack — the crazy wall by the 

disembowelled graveyard . And there 

he was wounded. 

Go softly, Memory, through that heroic 
hour — so brave, so calm, he gave his last 
command and on my shoulder — leaning 
sideways — we left the exploding hell. You 
were slid into an ambulance — smiUng and 
bloody — and I was alone — alone. 

Go softly, Memory, that I may not hear 
you . 



XII 

"T A SOUPE" like "le jus" is always 
■^^ piping hot but there is no more to be 
said in its praise. Grand 'mere is distressed 
at our restricted portions and at moments I 
am sure she would gladly put her heart into 
our war plates. Thinking to console our 
sneaking hunger she talks incessantly and 
softly — Grand 'mere's voice is very agree- 
able — of "my Joseph's appetite." I sur- 
mise he came honestly by his voracity, for 
Grand 'mbre assures us that even when a 
little boy he often ate her out of house and 
home. Always the memory of Joseph at 
home kindles a happiness in his mother's 
eyes. No matter how many potatoes Marie- 
Louise may cook, Joseph would eat them 
all. No matter how much meat and bread 
Grand 'mbre brought home in her basket, 
Joseph would eat it all. Flocks of ducks 

43 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

and chickens perished for Joseph. When I 
hear Grand 'mere talking about ducks and 
chickens my mouth waters, and I decide to 
arrange a little fete for my comrades. I talk 
it over with Grand 'mere who is enchanted 
at the scheme and frightened at the cost. 
However, she is absent during the after- 
noon and very flurried when the dinner 
comes in. Four brown ducks on a large 
platter and a bucket of salade. Salle Ver- 
dun is excited and fragrant. Twenty blesses 
dine like twenty kings. I lift my cup of 
Pinard and cry, "Long live Grand 'mere 
and Joseph!" A glad shout fills the air 
and I see laughter and tears on Grand '- 
mere's cheeks. 



xiri 

^"T^HIS afternoon it was so still in the 
ward that I could hear the drip of 
the fountain hidden in the breathless gar- 
den. Not another sound — as though we 
were twenty soldiers in a trance. Victor was 
absorbed in reading a long letter from one 
of his sweethearts, and Louis was asleep 
with the "Western Light" over his face. 
Most of us were on the fringe of dreams. 
Paul, I could see, was tranquilly looking 
through the ceiling. There come calm 
interludes like this. I smoke and watch a 
slumberous Chinaman in a silver coat per- 
forming tricks. I don't kn ow when he came, 
but there he is in velvet shoes, standing in 
the centre of the ward, his legs wide apart. 
His face is fiat and expressionless. With 
infinite suavity he tosses a little porcelain 
cup into the air — I watch it rise and turn 

45 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

and begin to fall. The Chinaman lifts his 
head and blows — the cup vanishes. He 
produces another cup exactly like the first 
one and tosses it into the air — I watch it 
rise and turn and begin to fall. Again the 
Chinaman lifts his head — blows — and the 
cup vanishes. The same trick over and 
over, hour after hour, and I watching 
through the azure lilies curling out of my 
pipe. 



XIV 

/^^RAND'MfiRE is talking very fast, 
^^ Paul is crying out loud and we are 
all feeling sad. The Giant and his languid 
nymph have been in three times to-day to 
look at Paul's arm. Victor has whispered 
to me that he was in the salle de panse- 
ment this morning while Paul was on the 
table. His arm is not doing very well — the 
wound is become greenish and swollen. We 
dare not think of that which is in our minds. 
Toward night the Doctor comes in again. 
No one speaks, not even Grand 'mere, while 
the Nurse unwinds Paul's bandage. An 
unpleasant odor drifts across Louis's bed to 
me. The Giant leans down and begins to 
talk hurriedly. I tremble hearing him say, 
"My son, there is nothing else to do. It 
is better to lose an arm than a life." 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

The Nurse stands close to the Giant — 
Grand 'mere has put her wrinkled old hand 
on Paul 's head. 

"No, Doctor, no, it is not possible, I 
cannot, cannot, I am a musician, I play the 
violin, no. Doctor, no." 

The Nurse bandages the arm. I feel 
sorry for the Giant — he stands looking 
helplessly down on Paul's bed. 

"No, Doctor, no," the violinist repeats, 
his eyes glittering. 

"Be calm," the Giant remarks, "I will 
see you to-morrow morning." 

There are no songs in Salle Verdun that 
night, only the sound of Paul crying into his 
pillow. I think he cried until the dawn put a 
shimmer on the high ceiling. When I awoke 
I thought of those Sunday morning musi- 
cales at Lyon — "Werther" and "Carmen." 

My coffee is still too hot to drink when 
the stretcher comes noisily into the ward. 

48 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

Thirty-seven helps Paul to get on to it. 
He assures him the Doctor wants only to 
look again at his arm. 

The bright morning passes and our com- 
rade does not come back. We read his 
destiny in Grand 'mare's eyes. 

"Le pauvre petit, mes enfants, they have 
cut off his arm." 

And then while we are softly talking it 
over the irony of life transpires. A young 
girl stands in the doorway — I have seen 
her picture — she is his sister — under her 
arm she is bringing a violin-case. 



49 



XV 

"/'^'EST la guerre, mon cher ami, c'est 
^^ la guerre," and Paul turns his head 
and smiles on me. 

"I know," he answers almost inaudibly, 
"c'est la guerre." 

It is the unfailing consolatory phrase 
repeated a thousand times daily at the 
front and in the hospitals — "C'est la 
guerre," and somehow our sorrows are 
adjusted. 

Paul was a surprise to us all when two 
days later he was rolled back into Salle 
Verdun. His face was very hollow but he 
smiled frankly and insisted that they push 
his stretcher up and down the ward from 
bed to bed so that he might shake hands 
with each comrade. I was touched to hear 
that nearly each one found something to 
say to him — although the mere pressure of 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

hands was poetry and eloquence. When he 
came to Andre who has no hands they both 
began to laugh. 

"Mon Vieux, tous mes hommages," said 
Andre, and waved his two stumps. 

Paul was confused for a second, then 
turned to Victor and said, "All the same I 
am lucky, am I not?" 

His sister came to see him that afternoon 
and interrupted my Chinaman. She sat by 
her brother's bed a long time — talking, talk- 
ing, but never once a word about music. 
The subject had been buried with Paul's 
arm. 

I thought of that sister riding back to 
Lyon with the coffin-like box beside her, 
when, after dark, Louis whispered to me 
that the violinist was asleep. 



XVI 

T OUR de fete de la Vierge, and the golden 
•^ air is a garden of bells. They come to us 
through every window; large solemn notes 
like the words of a Bishop ; little notes like 
children running home. Grand 'mere wears 
her best bonnet. She is kneeling in the 
Chapel surrounded by every blesse who 
can possibly walk. Louis begged to be 
carried to the door on the stretcher. " To 
hear the music," he whispered to me that 
Paul might not wince. Victor, handsomely 
combed, has gone to gather a smile from 
Soeur Angdlique. 

A year ago to-day comes back to me- 
I was with my Captain at M^nil-sur- 
Saulx. The morning was rainy, but the 
sun appeared at the mystic hour and from 
our window we saw the faded and tasselled 
Virgin leave her candle-lighted shrine and, 

S2 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

lovingly carried on believing shoulders, pass 
through the crooked streets, over the bridge 
and along the river path. 

The soldiers bathing in the reedy coves, 
hid themselves in the flowering bushes as 
she went chastely by. A dozen children 
in muslin designed her path and a proces- 
sion of old and young followed. My Cap- 
tain and I were proud to observe among 
the devotees our weird landlady — a thin, 
wooden woman — wearing a remarkably 
imposing hat. For a moment advancing 
through the leaves I mistook it for the Vir- 
gin. As the Captain said, the manner of 
it was thirty provincial years behind the 
fashion, but its amplitude was appropriately 
scriptural. 

Victor returned from Chapel pushing 
Louis's stretcher with one hand. He had 
winked, he said, to the Soeur Angelique. 



53 



XVII 

\ X TE all read and Andre, who has but 
^ one eye, amazes me by his studious 
application. His bandaged nose is in a 
book from morning until twilight. Often 
when I open my eyes at six o'clock he has a 
book in his hand and looks as though he had 
been reading since the cock crew. Some 
days he reads until Grand 'mere complains 
that his soup is stone cold. I wondered 
for a long time what might be the book he 
found so entertaining ; " La Legende doree " 
or an interminable history of France. I dis- 
liked to ask, he was so profoundly occu- 
pied. To-day he has suddenly thrown his 
book upon his neighbor's bed and bitterly 
announced that the last part is missing. 
"Last part of what," I cry out and learn he 
has for over a week been breathlessly pur- 
suing the inexhaustible adventures of a cin- 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

ema heroine — " Le Calvaire d 'une mere " — 
"It is not bad," he assures me, "but it is 
no use beginning because the last part is 
lost." I agree with Andre about the folly 
of approaching "Le Calvaire d'une mere," 
and pass my afternoon letting the supple 
chain of "Le Lys Rouge" glide through my 
brain. 

Louis is reading (when he remembers it) 
"Le Pecheur d'Islande" and Victor has 
found a copy of "La Legon d 'amour dans 
un pare." Paul rarely reads, that is, unless 
his books are printed on the ceiling. He 
was so immobile one day — although I 
could see his lids rhythmically rising and 
falling — that I asked him if he had ever 
seen a Chinaman in velvet shoes tossing 
cups into the air. He said, "No." I won- 
wonder what he does see? 

Gaston supplied us with a book written 
by a typewriter on thin paper — very torn 

ss 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

and dirty. It passed surreptitiously from 
bed to bed, and when anyone came into the 
ward the reader hid it under his blanket and 
pretended to be doing something else. 



XVI II 

^ I ""HE Vaguemestre has brought me 
proud news. My second citation. 
I read it aloud, unabashed, to the ward. 
Grand 'mere stands smiling at the foot of 
my bed. Louis and Victor stretch out a 
hand. From nineteen beds I receive a 
storm of fehcitations. I propose we have 
a fete to celebrate the honor. It must be 
sprinkled with Pinard. The ward is wide 
awake at the idea, but, in concert, insist 
that I shall be their guest. Grand 'mere 
looks a little frightened. 

"Mais oui, mes enfants, but wait until 
the evening after I am gone, la Mere 
Superieure would scold me if anything 
should happen." 

"But nothing can happen, Grand 'mere," 
a dozen voices protest. 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

"Dame non, but wait until the evening." 

So it is agreed. A couple of francs is 
contributed by each man but I am not 
permitted to add my share. And all the 
afternoon, Thirty-seven and Frangois (the 
strongest on legs), make five trips to the 
"Grappe Doree," which they inform me is 
across the street, returning each time twice 
their natural size; two bottles in their trow- 
ser pockets and two bottles under their 
coats. The sleepy guard at the door sur- 
mises nothing. 

A wine cellar is established behind the 
pulpit which stands under the bleeding 
image. The tall Mere Superieure coming 
into the ward finds us as innocently occu- 
pied as usual, and goes out, her long beads 
rattling, without smelling our secret. 

Grand 'mere leaves us at her accustomed 
hour a little lacking in serenity of mind. 
The silver foxes are creeping under the 

58 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

beds and Victor, waving his tin cup in the 
air cries, "Allons-y, mes gars ! " The cele- 
bration is on the wing. Francois and Thirty- 
seven, whom I suspect of having begun 
the fete at the "Grappe Doree," fill the 
cups. A pretty music of baby bells tinkles 
from bed to bed, and the storm of felicita- 
tions is again over my head. Louis, who 
is forever humming, begins to sing lustily 
"Vive le Pinard!" and the chorus rises 
harmoniously. 

Bottle after bottle is pronounced "dead." 
In performing the service, Thirty-seven and 
Fran9ois execute a dance, holding the bottles 
over their heads like crowns or against their 
chest like girls. We shout for a solo from 
Remy — a Breton on the other side; he 
sings in a sweetly modulated voice, "Quand 
nous en serons au temps des cerises," and 
we are touched a little foolishly for a dreamy 
moment. 

59 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

Francois and Thirty-seven go about with 
careless care. Darkness comes with the 
mounting songs — I but vaguely distinguish 
the beads along the wall — Victor jumps up 
on his bed and bellows forth — 

" Pour les poilus qui sont au front 
Qu'est ce qu'il leur faut comme distraction 
Une femme, une femme." 

The moonlit shadow from the window makes 
his naked legs shine like silver. 

By ten o'clock we are all in our cups, 
and defying any Nun or Doctor in Laval, 
carry on a wild symphony of innumerable 
songs; marching songs — naughty songs — 
sentimental songs — half forgotten songs — 
songs old as the souvenirs of the lilied Kings 
of France. 

We are twenty maimed soldiers, each with 
a hidden wound under a forgotten bandage, 
but shall we ever again be so young and 
gay? 

60 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

Gradually the chorus grows less violent 
— smoulders like autumn fires — flares — 
dwindles — dwindles . 

Louis is singing alone, "Je reve toujours 
au temps des cerises," — and I am falling 
asleep. 



XIX 

"VTELLIE has come to see me — charm- 
ing, thoughtless, extravagant Nellie 
has left her rose-hung villa by the sea, and 
her "papillon spaniel" under her arm, come 
to Laval to "cheer me up." The railroad 
journey was long and dusty, but Nellie sits 
beside me as fresh as the sapphires on her 
fingers. Her presence gives me my first 
experience of the delicious sensation of 
being a hero. Her eyes are so tenderly 
sympathetic; she would hear every detail 
of my battle — my wound, and when I show 
her the bullet which caused me so much 
pain she begs its possession with a smile. 

The afternoon seems more summer-like 
than I have known with Nellie beside me, 
gossiping of Paris and the guests in the 
rose-hung villa by the sea. She has been 
to a garden-party and she wore a Premet 

62 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

gown — "It isn't paid for yet — but it's 
awfully pretty." 

I like the vision of a garden-party float- 
ing into our ward — I see the ladies walk- 
ing under the trees. Mdlle. Rosamond has 
given a concert in Madame Scott's salon and 
sang like an angel — the proceeds are for 
the wounded soldiers. In a dream I hear 
Mdlle. Rosamond singing — I look around 
at the quiet wounded soldiers. 

The "papillon" is not at all socially 
inclined toward Victor, and Nellie picking 
her up like a skein of white wool, tosses her 
into Victor's lap. 

"Reste avec moi, mon coco cheri," Vic- 
tor coos, while the "papillon" barks like a 
real dog. 

"Kitty, Kitty, Kitty — well come to your 
mother," and the "papillon" is hiding her 
pink nose in the lacey folds of Nellie's 
bosom. Twenty blesses rather envy Kitty. 

63 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

Then like a cloud in a sunset sky Nellie 
goes away, leaving fat melons, purple grapes, 
books, flowers, and perfume on my bed. 



64 



XX 

11 /TY wound heals rapidly and I can look 
at it now without disgust. The Nurse 
has removed the trough and the Doctor has 
ordered me to try to walk a little each day. 
I make my first attempt and am amazed 
at the difficulty of managing crutches. It 
amuses my comrades ; their words of encour- 
agement get me into the middle of the room, 
and there I am overwhelmed with fear — 
like an exhausted swimmer alone in mid- 
seas. Thirty-seven who is watching, puts 
his hand on my shoulder, and the dizziness 
passes. Triumphantly I swing back to my 
bed. 

The next day it is less awkward and 
before long I can almost run from the door 
to the Christ. My knee is stiff and as yet 
I dare not step on my foot, but little by 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

little I master the apprehension and suc- 
ceed in taking a clumsy step. Others are 
also learning to walk; we make visits to 
distant bedsides and shake hands for the 
first time with dear old friends. 

One twilight, to ripple the dead water 
of a homesick hour, I plan a tour de force 
for my comrades. It succeeds beautifully 
although it obliges me to omit my little 
strolls for several days. Getting out of 
bed I balance myself between the crutches 
and as usual swing out into the room. All 
the pillows watch dreamily ; when I turn to 
regain my bed I deliberately let fall with a 
loud crash my crutches and as a cripple 
risen from the fountains at Lourdes, pro- 
ceed to walk, holding my head like an April 
gentleman parading the Champs Elysees. 

"A miracle ! a miracle ! a miracle ! " My 
point is made — we are laughing in Salle 
Verdun. 



XXI 

OHE waited for a long time in the door- 
way gazing into the ward. Then she 
came slowly in and stood by R^my's bed 
looking down on him but not speaking. 
It was grown dusk; Grand 'mere had gone 
home. I could see that she was a sweet 
woman with that ineffable quality which we 
call "motherly." A strange sadness hung 
over her like a long veil. Vaguely and 
never speaking she passed from cot to cot 
pausing at each and scrutinizing dreamily 
its occupant. She was obviously seeking 
some one. Passing by the Christ on the 
wall she crossed herself. 

"What may I do for you, Madame?" I 
broke the silence as she lingered by me. 

"My son" — was her only answer. 

"Who is that lady," I asked Louis when 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

she had drifted into the shadows of the 
corridor. 

"She is insane," he replied, "she used 
often to come here — her son was missing 
four years ago, after the Marne." 

"That is very sad," said Victor tenderly. 



68 



XXII 

T HAD forgotten the sky could blossom 
so blue — I had forgotten the trees were 
so lovely — and the garden was to me like a 
gay surprise when with Victor to-day I went 
out of doors. And Remy and Francois and 
Paul on a stretcher, and Thirty-seven came, 
too, and Grand 'mere brought us blankets 
and we lay together singing and jesting 
under the tall trees. 

The warm smell of the earth was good; 
on the curving flash of the birds we went 
over the leafy wall with the summer airs. 
Other blesses from other wards joined us 
wearing red and orange jackets. I fancied 
we looked like a group of zanies waiting in 
a green tent for the passing of some tinkling 
caravan. 

Grand 'mere put her head out of the win- 
dow talking of sunset and dew, and Paul 

69 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

was carried in. Victor and I walked through 
the gardens and rested on a stone seat by 
the fountain. Silver water dripped from 
under the feet of a Virgin, making a mur- 
mur as one telling beads, while falling 
asleep. The Madonna's slippers were so 
overstained with emerald moss that they 
looked as though one of the Magi had 
bought them from a wizard in a dancer's 
bazaar at Damascus. 



XXIII 

TT was — and so I record it. Poor little 
golden Grand 'mere for whom I believe 
any one of us would have given his life at 
the moment the blow fell. 

At three o'clock she was sweeping under 
the beds and answering quite gaily our silly 
questions as to what might a Cure wear 
under his solemn cassock, and did the Sceur 
Angelique sleep in her wide stiff bonnet? 
I remember she told us the romance of the 
poor little "sister" who fell in love with 
a blesse — two years since — and married 
him — going to London to be "undressed." 
Victor was very facetious over this story, and 
we all laughed heartily, even Paul who never 
laughs. And then, while Grand 'mere, still 
rosier from her sweeping and laughing was 
standing by my bed leaning on her broom, 
Marie-Louise came running into the ward 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

as grey as dusty alabaster. Her hat was 
in her hand, which, I felt, surprised Grand '- 
mere even more than her pallor. The 
broom dropped with a sharp report and we 
saw the tragedy of the world gather into 
one poor little wrinkled face. They stood 
clinging together as women in a storm and 
Grand 'mere's loud weeping was the lashing 
sea breaking over them. 

"Dead! my Joseph — my Joseph — my 
Joseph!" 

It was then that twenty wounded soldiers 
would have willingly put their lives under 
Grand 'mbre's feet. 



XXIV 

^T^WO days later I left Laval — to be 
with my Captain at Dinard. It was a 
happy change for me but I left Salle Verdun 
with regret and tears. Other surroundings, 
other blesses superimpose other memories; 
only Laval remains impearled and sacred in 
my heart of hearts. 

The vine-dressers, the masons, the blond 
farmers are long since returned to vine and 
wall and glebe; returned at least to sit in 
their shadows. Paul is at home and Vic- 
tor by the Mediterranean. The Nuns pray 
beneath the Christ; the Virgin at the mur- 
muring fountain hears no jovial songs or 
cry of suffering soldiers. The songs, the 
grief, the pain, fade in the stillness of pass- 
ing days. 

" Sweeter than a vanished Frolic 
From a vanished Green 1 



73 



THE TENDER MEMORIES 

Swifter than the hoofs of Horsemen 
Round a ledge of Dreams." 

Only here and in my heart impearled 
and sacred forever — the tender, tender 
memories. 



Hospital 48 

Rennes 

1918 




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